At the Beginning with You
by Misaki Sakura
Summary: Their meetings, the progress in their so called arrangement and the beginning after the end. See warnings inside.
1. Lestrade's Story

At the Beginning with You

By Misaki Sakura

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters.

Warning: Brief mention of suicidal thoughts, dub-con

LLLLL

The first time Lestrade met Mycroft Holmes, it was raining. He just had one of the worst days in his life and, now, drenched with his bag in his hand, he was standing near the Thames, briefly thinking of what his life had become. He was not even 20 and he was already getting tired of everything.

"You are not thinking to jump."

It was a statement, not a question, and delivered in a drawl. Lestrade was surprised to see a redheaded teen, close to his age, holding an umbrella at him. "You look like a drenched rat."

Lestrade felt anger rising, but before he could tell the boy to mind his own business, the umbrella was thrusted into his hand and the boy ran to the waiting black car. Lestrade stared at the umbrella. His day only got better from then.

LLLLL

The first time Lestrade met Sherlock Holmes, it was raining. He sat in the hospital waiting room for the doctor to tell him the condition of the young man he found, high on cocaine, collapsed from hunger (later he found, not entirely true when it came to Sherlock) and cold, near his crime scene. He should not even be there, he had a murderer to catch, but his DI had ordered him to take the man to the hospital and Lestrade did not have the heart to leave him. Not to mention, his DI seemed to think that he was a suspect. Lestrade had to admit, he was very suspicious.

When the doctor had told him that the man (Sherlock, his name was Sherlock) was fine, he spared several minutes to warn him not to take cocaine again. However, before he had the chance to open his mouth, Sherlock said, "It's the butler."

"Pardon?"

"The murderer is the butler."

Of all the clichéd things ... "It's the butler in the dining room with a pipe." he muttered under his breath. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but he didn't say anything.

And that was that. Or so he thought.

LLLLL

The second time Lestrade met Mycroft Holmes, it was the day after he made the agreement with Sherlock to stay clean. Sherlock had fought tooth and nail, sneered at him, and insulted him, but Lestrade had put his foot down and would not let Sherlock anywhere near his crime scene if he could not prove to him that he had got clean. Sherlock checked into rehab that day. Lestrade developed an apprehension over shady black car on the same day.

The light in the warehouse was dim. He could not stop thinking how it was a situation he never imagined he would be in. Especially when he took in the man in front of him, immaculately dressed, tone condescending, hand holding an umbrella, and handed him backhanded compliments and, on top of everything, a bribe. If he had not been so angry, he would have laughed at the man's face. That was the day he knew Mycroft's name; that was also the day he found out how powerful Mycroft Holmes could be.

LLLLL

Lestrade looked up from his position on the floor. Mycroft had got dressed and walked out of the door without looking back, without acknowledging him. Lestrade could not remember how he got into there. He remembered fear, fear that he still felt when he walked home at night, not knowing who was lurking in the shadows. No, he knew perfectly well who and that was what he feared more than the unknown. Fear for his team, his career, his friends ... not that he had many of them, and fear for the loss of tentative trust that he knew Sherlock placed on him. And in order to keep everything, he had served himself on a silver platter to Mycroft Holmes.

He wondered if biting his tongue would actually kill him. With his luck, it probably wouldn't.

LLLLL

Diogenes was Mycroft's club. Sherlock had said that. A place where people can do whatever they pleased and as long as they kept quiet, no one would bat an eye. Lestrade felt cold, nails digging into Mycroft's back as he slid further across the desk. Mycroft's hold on his hips was close to bruising. He knew it was not going to be long now and he was right as he felt Mycroft sank his teeth into Lestrade's shoulder. He also knew that it was only a matter of time before the older Holmes would dress himself up and walk out, leaving Lestrade alone in his private room. It was a familiar dance. He let out a bitter laugh. He should stop fooling himself that things would change. Though he would appreciate it if he could be left on a bed for once. Not even that comfort was provided for him.

LLLLL

Lestrade never knew who gave him that umbrella. He still kept that in his closet, never used it. He had other umbrellas. That one was more of a ... comfort for him. That there was someone who had shown him kindness, however cold it might have bee. He remembered coming back over and over to stand on that spot, holding an umbrella in the hope that he would meet that boy again. He never did. Eventually, he gave up. He moved on with his life. But sometimes, when the cases were hard, difficult to comprehend the degree of violence someone could do to someone else, he would open his closet and stared at the umbrella, remembering one point in his life where he knew that an act of kindness still existed in the world, and felt a bit better. How ironic it was that the one thing that gave him comfort was the memory of the man who in the past years seemed to be the cause of his hurt. But then, at the time, he did not know.

LLLLL

Lestrade never questioned how Mycroft and Sherlock's relationship work. More than once he walked into the cold war of the Holmes brother, and in more than one occasion had to act as their messenger. Everything was as later Mycroft would say to John, a childish feud. It would have been amusing to Lestrade had Mycroft not decided to pay a visit to Sherlock when he was in a case with Lestrade or in the process of getting into one. Nevertheless, here he was, with a sulking detective in his office who managed to piss just about everyone in his team. He was tired of playing mediator to the Holmes brothers. Sherlock just eyed him, chin raised high as if to dare him to say anything. Lestrade ran a hand down his face. Mycroft always told Sherlock that he was annoyed having to get his brother out of the mess of his own making. Lestrade could have said the same to the older Holmes brother with the same amount of exasperation. He was the one who had to deal with the aftermath, and somewhere there was a murderer who was still on the loose because of the so called childish feud. So Lestrade told Sherlock in the most authoritative voice he could manage to get a hold of himself and to finish the case.

Sherlock did not talk to him out of spite for days after that, though he still texted him his solution to the case. Mycroft made sure to come and gloat at Sherlock.

If Mycroft could ever have it in his mind to respect Lestrade, this would be one of the reasons.

LLLLL

He had thought when he first entered the arrangement with Mycroft, he could match him with his own emotional detachment. He had learned not to get emotionally involved with people he met, or the cases he were assigned to. Nonetheless, he found himself so touch-starved and lonely, he would take almost anything Mycroft threw at him. Almost. If he had found money on the dresser or nightstand after Mycroft left, he would have thrown them at his face. Sometimes, he thought that was the only reason Mycroft did not do that.

They rarely talk about themselves. Mycroft never did and Lestrade knew Mycroft had all his files by the time of their first (second, really) meeting. Their talk, if they ever, was always about Sherlock and the cases he was involved in. It was sad in Lestrade's opinion that Sherlock seemed to be the only one that could make him believe that Mycroft had a heart. Occasionally, with no warning whatsoever, Mycroft would give him things. Ties, shirts, suits, watches. Lestrade never wore them, except for the watch. And the only reason for that was because he ruined his watch jumping after Sherlock into a river. He felt he could accept that as compensation. He wore them when he came to Mycroft's office that night. He remembered the glint in Mycroft's eyes that he could not recognise, the vigorous pounding that left him squirming in his seat at the meeting the next day, and the feeling of lips pressed against his wrist, just below the band of his watch.

LLLLL

The moment Lestrade realised he was falling for Mycroft was the moment he decided it had to end. Sleeping with him (no, they had never slept together, Mycroft would never allowed that) after that realisation pained him more than he thought it would. So one day, four years after it started, he told Mycroft he was ending it. Mycroft looked at him as if he was throwing a tantrum in the middle of the street. He asked him slowly what he wanted. Lestrade could answer it in one word, _everything_, but he knew it was not true. He took pride in his honesty and Mycroft would get that from him, even if he didn't deserve it.

"Everything you will never give."

LLLLL

His life went on without a sign or a glimpse of Mycroft. If Sherlock knew, for once he didn't say anything. And if he felt like he was being watched constantly, more than before, then it was only him being paranoid.

LLLLL

The first time Lestrade met John Watson, it was five years after he met Sherlock. It was also six months since he last saw Mycroft. He was surprised to see the doctor at the crime scene, even more surprised when he found out that not only Sherlock brought him there, he was also his flatmate, or going to be. And when that night he found Sherlock and a dead serial killing cabbie, he had a suspicion on whom the shooter was. Add Sherlock's sudden stop in his deduction and the doctor's obvious way in avoiding his eyes to the whole situation, and he came up with an answer that he knew would not take a genius to figure out. Frankly, he was glad that someone (other than him and Mycroft) had enough ... loyalty(?) ... to Sherlock to kill for him.

And when his heart skipped a beat as he saw Mycroft talking with Sherlock and Dr Watson, he forced himself to calm down. He gave orders to his team to wrap everything up and walked tiredly to his car.

"You look awful."

Lestrade was startled at the voice, another place another time, different context yet something rang familiar to him. The umbrella in his hand ... He looked up at Mycroft who he realised was gripping the handle of his umbrella tightly.

"It seems that we never had a proper introduction, Detective Inspector."

It seemed strange that after everything between them, this small interaction would be the one time he saw Mycroft uncomfortable, judging by the tightening of his hold on his umbrella.

"I intend to rectify that."

He held his hand out. Lestrade looked at the offered hand. What would it mean if he took it? Was it going to be the same? Then slowly, he took the hand in a handshake. Mycroft's eyes widened. Lestrade gave him a smile, a tired but for once a genuine smile. Maybe it was not ideal. Maybe he was a fool to start this all over again. But the initial value had changed, and for that, even Sherlock could not say that he was an idiot for expecting a different result.


	2. Mycroft's Story

At the Beginning with You

By Misaki Sakura

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters.

Warning: dub-con, obsessive!Mycroft

**Mycroft's Story**

The first time Mycroft met Gregory Lestrade, it was raining. He was walking to the car after spending some time taking a stroll along the embankment. Not something he would usually do, but it somehow allured to him that day. He just received his letter from Oxford and he should start thinking about his future. Umbrella in hand, he spotted the car near the bridge. That was when he saw someone standing, eyes vacant, drenched from head to toe with equally wet bag in his hand. Mycroft looked at the boy up and down, and then, slowly approached him. The next thing he knew, he had insulted him as an opening to a conversation. Mycroft was quite perturbed that he could not start a conversation properly. He was usually more in his element, but not then. He could feel the boy's anger, so he shoved his umbrella at him, and with a dignified stance, walked (ran, really, but it could be attributed to the rain ... or so he thought) to his (thankfully) waiting car. His hand was tingling at the place where his hand had brushed against the boy's the whole ride home.

And that, to Mycroft, was when it all started.

MMMMM

He had imagined the meeting in different settings and endings over and over. He did not understand what it was, what the feeling he felt every time the image of The Boy (until he knew his name, he would remain as The Boy) replayed in his mind was. He learnt to control it with difficulty. After several years, he thought he had succeeded.

MMMMM

He blamed The Boy when his relationship with Sherlock deteriorated. If he had not been to preoccupied with his work and _him_, he would have had more time for his brother. Then it became worse. Sherlock hated him and, in Mycroft's opinion, destroyed his life to spite him. Mycroft did not know what to do and he hated it. What was the use of having control of most of the world if he could not save his brother from himself? And if he did not want his brother to waste his talent to drugs then he had to do something.

All his attempts to help Sherlock only served to make his brother hate him more. Then he heard, after months sorting the problem in the Middle East, that his brother had checked himself into rehab. Because of the persuasion of one DI Lestrade. Sherlock had been in contact with this man since before he was a DI. He had been arrested several times by this man and yet, he managed to convince his brother to get clean, the one thing that Mycroft still could not make him do. He had to meet this DI Lestrade. So he had the DI 'escorted' to an abandoned warehouse while he spent the ride there reviewing the DI's files.

Mycroft had never lost his composure, not even when he had to face presidents or monarchs, yet one look, one closer look at the photographs of the man on the files made him almost drop his umbrella. His assistant, bless her, only reacted with a raised eyebrow at her Blackberry.

DI Lestrade. That Boy. Not a boy now. A man, definitely a man.

He was glad at least to have a name to go with the face, among other things.

MMMMM

The meeting left him angry, angry at Lestrade for not remembering him while he had spent years trying to control his feelings ... urges, angry at himself for being angry. He had to stop his hand from twitching when they were talking, so close to touch yet so far away. Mycroft thought he had control over his obsession. Apparently he was wrong. He had to deal with it. He had to. And he had to make sure that this time Lestrade would remember his name.

MMMMM

He put Greg, now in his head Lestrade was always Greg (the name had never passed his lips when they were together), on surveillance. He would spend some time watching him from the CCTV cameras. They always met in his house or his office, but he never stayed. He could not stay. Every time he held those hands, every time he brushed his lips on his skin, every time he pressed against him, he could feel things, things he thought were left buried. Lestrade had far too strong hold on him. As Sherlock said, the body is only transport, and his wanted the one that he could not have. Mycroft was no fool, he knew he was pushing Lestrade. How far could he handle?

He knew it was an obsession and he was, for lack of better word, a stalker. He was disgusted by himself, but he could not stop. He would never hurt Lestrade, not physically, but his lack of control had hurt him in more ways and more destructive than a physical harm could. Every time he held the inspector, he thought of the people who had seen him like that, who had held him like that, and he was enraged. He had to stop himself from making them ... disappear. It would not be fair and Lestrade would hate him if he found out. He saw the blank look that Lestrade had when they were together. That look stopped him from kissing him. He would not give himself that satisfaction. It is a punishment for him, for taking something that he should not take. Once he had everything under control, he would let Greg go. He told himself that everyday, but even to him it sounded empty.

MMMMM

The monitor in front of him showed a clearer picture than the others, a clear view of Greg. Him interrogating suspects, chasing after criminals, chasing after Sherlock. He still could not believe that Greg managed to get Sherlock into rehab. He wondered what he did. Why did Sherlock listen to him? The thought of Sherlock and Greg together ... Mycroft was horrified when he realised he would face Sherlock if that meant he would be able to keep Greg. The voice inside his head, a tiny voice from the boy he had been, kept telling him, _He is not yours to keep_. Mycroft had learnt to ignore the voice, but even if it was right, he would need to change it. He loved Sherlock, but if he ever laid a hand on Greg ... Even Mycroft could not bear to continue the thought. And wasn't that terrifying in itself ...

MMMMM

He could never let him go. That was his thought as he looked down on Greg, mouth opened in a gasp, eyes glazed with lust. His hands travelled down that gorgeous body, his tongue followed. He could feel that Greg was more responsive lately. It was less of Mycroft trying to make him elicit a sound during their time together and receiving a blank stare instead. It was something, and the first time Greg said his name in that breathy voice, calling him, grabbing him, actually touching him on his own accord, pulled him close, he lost it. No, he could never let him go, not on his own volition. He could not say no to the man, if he would just ask. Greg clearly had no idea how much power he had over Mycroft. _Yes_, he thought as he pressed kisses on Greg's collarbone, adding to the kiss marks already placed there, his marks, _I cannot let him go, it will kill me_. And that was the truth.

MMMMM

Mycroft hated Donovan. No, not hated. Disliked. She was hostile to Sherlock, called him names, but his brother was never too affected by it. What he hated the most was her lingering glances on Greg, her hand on his arm, the way she flicked her hair ... Mycroft watched in distaste as she tried, unsuccessfully, to get Greg's attention. His one comfort was that Greg did not realise what was happening. However, that could change, and despite his thought to ... remove Sergeant Donovan from Greg's vicinity, he could not give the man more reason to hate him. _As if he did not hate you enough now_. So he arranged problems to Anderson's marriage, made sure that Anderson got good look on Donovan, made sure to throw them together more often than not, and if later Donovan took up with Anderson and left Greg alone, it was a win/win situation for the both of them. He knew Greg did not like it. He knew that it was only going to be a disaster. If Donovan dared to seek comfort from Greg when the relationship crumbled, then Mycroft could not be held accountable if he decided to take the necessary steps to ... make sure the problems go away.

MMMMM

He gave gifts to Greg anytime he could. In fact, he could not stop himself every time he saw something that he wanted to see on Greg. He also knew that Greg never wore anything that he sent. Until one day he saw the watch, light reflected from the clear surface. He remembered buying it, the price did not put a dent in his account, but he had not thought that the inspector would actually wear it. More than anything, it raised something in his body. Greg followed his eyes and started explaining about Sherlock ruining his watch or something, Mycroft was not really listening. Instead, he pulled Greg to him and proceeded to show him how much he appreciated it. It was not a gesture, he knew. He also knew Sherlock's involvement in it, he had the report on his desk. He had considered the possibility, but did not dare to hope. He made note to send Sherlock his thanks and let his brother deduced whatever that meant. And as he pinned both Greg's wrists next to his head, feeling the cold metal band of the watch on his palm and pushed into the hot body underneath him, he felt those long legs digging into his back, pulling him in further, Greg's voice saying, _Mycroft_. That was the first time Mycroft dared to kiss him. And he could not stop. Not even when Greg went slack on him, eyes closing as sleep overtook him. He did not know if Greg was going to remember it. But it was etched in his memory for as long as he lived. That was also the day he accepted how much he loved the sleeping man.

MMMMM

If Mycroft could point to the one thing he loved most about Greg, it was his sense of honour. It battled with his love for the man's patience, and devotion, and ..., and everything about him, really, but his sense of honour was the best thing to him, if not amusing. The way he handled Sherlock was amazing. He had managed to convince himself that what Sherlock had with Greg was platonic. He acted more like an older brother, more of an older brother to Sherlock than Mycroft was nowadays. If it had not been Greg, he would have ... done something. Sherlock still sulked and generally made everyone's life hell when he was in one of his moods, but Greg handled him quite well. He also made him keep his promise to stay clean, and to Mycroft that was the most important thing.

The problem was, his brother was too smart not to notice. He barged into his office, telling him to stop tormenting Greg, and find a new toy to play with. Mycroft was seething with anger, his voice was icy when he told Sherlock that it was not his business. How could he understand? How could he understand that Mycroft needed Greg? Sherlock had never needed anyone. He had never felt this drive, this ... urge to take whatever he could get. To stop people from taking what was his. _Never yours_. The voice. _No, he is mine, mine, only mine_. He had to show Sherlock. He had to show Sherlock, to show his brother who was mocking him about his lack of control over his body. _It is only transport, Mycroft. How hard is it to control something so mundane?_ He would show Sherlock, he would prove him wrong, and in the end, Mycroft Holmes would have the last laugh.

MMMMM

Mycroft knew he had turned so pale he could collapse at any moment. His grip on his umbrella was starting to become painful. Greg was breaking it off. Why? He said he did not care if Mycroft destroyed his life, that he could not continue living like this. Why? He would give everything to make Greg stay. Why would he leave him? Mycroft wondered if that was the reason of some of the murders that Greg usually handled. The image of Greg lying in the pool of his own blood with Mycroft standing there, a gun, a knife, _something_, in his hand. The phrase, _Now you will never leave me_ ... No, he would not debase himself. He would not become a common criminal. He took in the sight of the man, shoulders slumped, dark circles under his eyes.

"What do you want?" He asked in a steady voice, what was supposed to be a steady voice, but it sounded broken to his ear.

When Greg answered, "Everything you will never give.", he wanted to yell _Wrong!_ that there was nothing he was not willing to give him. But Greg looked very tired, sad, hurt. _What about me?_ Mycroft then realised this was one thing he could give. If Greg wanted out, if he thought he would be happier if he got out of their ... not quite a relationship, then that was what Mycroft would give him.

"Very well then." His obsession for this man had not diminished, but it was apparently held in check by another feeling that was more dangerous to him. After years of trying to control his obsession, he finally managed it.

As he watched Greg walked out of the door, he wondered why the victory felt so bitter.

MMMMM

Mycroft knew that it would hurt. He just never thought how much it would hurt him to only be able to watch, not to touch. He upped the surveillance to make sure that Greg would not get hurt, or at least reduce the chance of that happening. He was working with Sherlock after all and the boy was trouble. Mycroft could not sleep, he could not eat, every spare time that he got, he spent watching the CCTV feeds of Greg. He was not faring that much better. The first time he saw Greg going out with someone, he nearly hurled his glass at the monitor. Luckily for the poor guy, it never went past the first date. He still made sure to get him transferred as far away as possible from Greg. He was back at square one and he was not feeling better.

_Everything you will never give._

He wondered what that meant. His eyes when he said it ...

_Everything you will never give._

Mycroft curled up in his bed, something he had not done since his childhood, and could not help feeling so alone.

MMMMM

The first time Mycroft met John Watson, he knew this man would be perfect for Sherlock the moment he refused his offer. Sherlock was lucky to have him. And a darker part in his mind was delighted that Sherlock probably did not know what hit him. Serve him right. Mycroft had little reason to be in a good mood lately, but this was reason enough. And another person watching over Sherlock would mean less work for both Greg and Mycroft.

The second time Mycroft met John Watson, he was with Sherlock. The cabbie was dead, and he was right. John Watson would kill for Sherlock. It was a good start. Sherlock taunted him as usual, Mycroft kept his amusement inside. Oh, if only Sherlock had known. When he said, _Losing it, in fact_, he was losing it. The not eating and overworking were running him ragged and he felt foolish. Sherlock knew what he meant. It was only a brief look, a _Don't be stupid, it is unbecoming _look from a brother who he knew despite everything still worried about him. And Sherlock was right. It did upset Mummy.

After their talk, Mycroft stayed behind to watch Greg got his team to clear the scene. This was the closest they had been since six months ago. Mycroft missed it. He walked up to Greg, delighted in seeing the man's _gorgeous, lovely, brilliant_, eyes widened at him. Another bad start at conversation, but Mycroft had not slept in days, he could be excused for that. He could not even remember how long. He offered his hand, this time letting Greg took it when he wanted to, _if_ he wanted to. His heart was beating so hard the whole time that he was amazed Greg could not hear it. For what felt like hours, he stood there, hand tightened around the handle of his umbrella, the other was offered to the man who looked at it warily. Then slowly, much to his surprise, Greg took the offered hand.

And for the first time since they met all those years ago, Gregory Lestrade finally, _finally_, smiled at him.

MMMMM


	3. When It Finally Came Together

At the Beginning with You

By Misaki Sakura

Disclaimer: Nope, still not mine.

Warning: character death (but it's Moriarty, so…)

**Epilogue**

**Sherlock's Story**

To Sherlock Holmes, Gregory Lestrade might be the only person he could call a friend before John came into his life. The man was infuriating sometimes, but he had spine, he would not be pushed around for the things that mattered. To Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes was an archenemy. He was annoying, condescending, far too pleased with himself, and far too powerful to his liking. He was also smarter than Sherlock, one thing he grudgingly admitted to himself, but had yet done so to other people. And Mycroft knew it. He was also too invested in his life, nosy, an overprotective brother. That was why when Sherlock found out about Mycroft and Lestrade, he was enraged. He was sure his deduction was not wrong, that his brother had at least a physical relationship with the inspector. Mycroft always took his things. His father was more interested in Mycroft, always compared him to his elder brother. Could he not stay away from his friend? Could he not keep his fat, grabby hands to himself? Apparently not. So he confronted Mycroft. His brother's reaction was not one he expected.

Mycroft never lost his temper, not in front of him. One of the things that his father valued and Sherlock despised. But this, this man in front of him, defending his stand on whatever he had with the inspector. His brother was trying to define it. It was not clear even to him. He wanted Lestrade so bad. Sherlock could not understand that. And Mycroft had said that much. That he could not understand it, how much he wanted Lestrade, so much that he had resorted to unseemly means. So Sherlock stepped back. He could not interfere in something that he did not understand. He watched instead.

He knew the moment it changed, he knew from Lestrade's looks, his sad eyes, the desperation that he could ... deduce from his observation. He also knew the moment it ended. Lestrade would not look at him the whole time they were at the crime scene. He immediately disappeared after hearing his solution to the case. That was also the day he realised that this was more than what he thought. It was not a healthy relationship, that much he knew. Why his brother would want to be in one, he could not understand. And then his brother let Lestrade go. Why? Was he bored of his ... toy?

This hypothesis was rejected when he saw Mycroft. His brother became thinner and thinner. That would be the thinnest he had seen Mycroft in his whole life. He clearly was not taking care of himself. Even his assistant looked worried. It scared him. How could this happen? Lestrade? Why did his brother let Lestrade go if it was killing him? He could not understand. It was not logical.

Then there were the serial killing cabbie, John Watson, and Moriarty. He did wonder why his brother was at the crime scene that night. He got his answer when he saw Lestrade and his brother next. Separately. He believed Lestrade to be a fool to let this go on again. He thought Mycroft was stupid to let someone have that much power over him, to run himself to the ground because of someone. It was stupid.

Several months later, as Sherlock aimed the gun at the semtex-filled jacket, he realised that he might be too hasty. It was still stupid, yes. Look at where he was. Look at what he almost did. Look at what he was going to do. Yes, it was stupid. But it was all worth it. Now he could say to Mycroft that he understood. The next time he saw his brother, he would tell Mycroft. Now, he had a criminal mastermind to kill and a doctor to save.

**John's Story**

One year ago, he would say that nothing in his life was interesting. After being shipped back from Afghanistan, wounded and broken, he could not think of what to do. Now, he was living with the only consulting detective in the world, risked his life for said detective, killed for him, navigated his way around the experiment-filled flat and to him it was just another day. It's as normal as living with Sherlock Holmes could get.

After The Pool incident, he broke off whatever it was he had with Sarah that was not platonic in any way. There was no point in continuing a relationship where he did not have enough interest to maintain properly. Standing Sarah up in favour of Sherlock should have been an indication enough to tell him which way his priority laid. Nevertheless, Moriarty's words still fresh in his mind and he still had problem admitting that even to himself that Moriarty was probably right.

Sherlock, however, had other things in mind. And as usual, John got sucked into the brilliance that was Sherlock Holmes. Fast forward three months, he was now in a relationship with the detective. The thing was, when you were happy, if you were a decent person, you would want other people to be happy too. Since John was a decent person, and the closest person he had other than Sherlock were Mrs Hudson and Lestrade, well. Mrs Hudson was happy with her activities and her friendship with Mrs Turner. That left Lestrade.

He had met Lestrade more than once at the pub and they decided to have a regular night out, usually to vent about Sherlock or Lestrade's team. He found out that Donovan had broken up with Anderson (_Good for her!_). This led him to the question in regards to Lestrade's relationship, to which inspector became silent. John wondered whether he was offended by the question and started apologising when the older man looked at him and said, "I'm not sure."

John was sure this was probably what people had in mind when they put 'It's Complicated' in their relationship status.

JJJJJ

John was fairly certain that Sherlock knew more than he let on. He always knew more than he let on, when he was not being smug about it. _Leave them be, John_ was what Sherlock said when John told him. Lestrade did not tell him who it was. Sherlock did not either. So he started observing. After a few stumbles and embarrassing conversations with Lestrade (and Donovan, he still refused to be left alone with her), John was out of options.

Then Moriarty struck again.

JJJJJ

John knew that Mycroft was no ordinary man. He was a Holmes after all. But after the event of that day, he realised he did not want to be the target of Mycroft's wrath.

It all started when he came back from the surgery to Sherlock having a screaming match with Donovan. He was confused as to why Lestrade sent Donovan instead of coming there himself. When he started listening to what they were yelling at each other about, he quickly put a stop to that.

"What do you mean Lestrade's been kidnapped?"

JJJJJ

Sherlock had been watching the video that Moriarty sent him over and over again, trying to find anything that might lead them to his hideout. Everyone was high-strung, even John. They were in their living room, worry emanating from Donovan very clearly. After months of no sign of Moriarty, he struck right to their middle. Sherlock had been careful, he also told John to be careful. Mycroft, he knew, had a lot of bodyguards and would be quite safe. Lestrade ... was unexpected. They had been rounding up Moriarty's men and for that, he might see Lestrade as a way to get to Sherlock. Moriarty was losing so he tried to hit them again.

After hours of searching to no avail, Sherlock was frustrated enough to almost throw the knife on the mantelpiece at the wall. That was when all of their phones chirruped at the same time. John looked at his warily, expecting the worse. The number was unknown. It gave them a room number at St Bart's Hospital and signed off by MH. Sherlock grabbed his coat and ran out the door to call for a cab before Donovan could say anything. John gestured for her to follow them. On the way, she received a call that some of Moriarty's henchmen, including Moran, were dropped off at the Yard. Moriarty was not one of them. John, however, was more worried for Lestrade than Moriarty's whereabouts at the moment. After being kidnapped himself by the criminal mastermind, he could not imagine what Lestrade had gone through there.

When they arrived, they were told that Lestrade was still unconscious, but his condition has stabilised. A concussion, some broken ribs, and a stab wound, but none of those were critical. He had gone through worse on a day out chasing criminals with Sherlock, according to Donovan. After making sure that her boss was alright, she went back to the Yard to maybe get some information on Moriarty. Sherlock only shook his head.

John looked over the chart to make sure that Lestrade was indeed relatively alright before he looked at Sherlock. "Are you not going to chase after Moriarty?"

"There is no need to do that, John. He will be taken care of."

"What are you talking about? By whom."

Sherlock looked at Lestrade, then back at John. "By the most dangerous man you've ever met."

That rang familiar to John.

It was not until he was nicely tucked in their bed with Sherlock back at Baker Street when it clicked.

Oh.

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Sherlock, of course as always, was right. Moriarty was taken care of. Very thoroughly. John found this out when he opened the packet that was left at their door. He should have learnt not to open things that were addressed to Sherlock or even had Sherlock's name on it, but it also had his name written and it was signed MH. He knew who that was and it definitely not a bomb, so he opened it. It was not the first time he saw body parts around Baker Street, it was quite common actually when you were living with Sherlock Holmes. However, this one was different because it was sent by Mycroft. And as far as he knew, which was not much, Mycroft did not send body parts to people. Sherlock, seeing his expression, peered into the box.

"Ah. I told you he would be taken care of."

Inside the box was Moriarty's head.

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"Is Lestrade married?"

They were lying together on their bed, Sherlock's attention was on the book in his hand. He raised an eyebrow at John's question. "No, why did you ask?"

"Well, he is wearing a wedding ring ..."

"It is a ring, worn on the ring finger."

"It's worn on the _left_ ring finger. Generally, that's where people wear wedding rings."

"If it is a real wedding ring, yes."

John blinked. "What do you mean? It's not a real wedding ring?"

Sherlock sighed, closing his book, he turned to face the doctor. "Why the sudden interest in Lestrade's relationship, John?"

John looked at Sherlock. The detective was genuinely curious. "Because I want him to be happy too."

Sherlock looked alarmed all of a sudden. "You don't think that Lestrade was happy."

"No, he ... he's not unhappy, but not ... exactly happy. He does seem content, but I don't want him to be alone." If what he thought before was true ...

"Lestrade is not alone, John." Sherlock laid back down on the bed and frowned.

"You don't approve?"

"I am conflicted as to what I am supposed to feel. As long as he is _content_, it is still better than before."

"Before?"

Sherlock smiled at him, the smile that told John he knew something but he was not telling him. John sighed, resigned.

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If John had any doubt that there was something between Mycroft and Lestrade, it disappeared as he saw Mycroft's car in front of Lestrade's building as he helped the inspector get out of the cab. He was discharged that day and John insisted to see him back to his flat in one piece. Lestrade's expression was another clincher.

As he got out of the cab at Baker Street, John wondered how it even made sense.

**When Everything Finally Came Together**

Greg studied the man sitting in front of him. From his immaculate three-piece suit to his ever present umbrella. Mycroft always exuded power and certain charisma. Greg was always amazed by this. Since almost a year, of Mycroft doing this ... wooing was the closest word Greg could think to describe it. After the killer-cabbie case, Greg would find random texts or sometimes meals on his desk. Nothing too extravagant, nothing like the expensive gifts that Mycroft used to give him. Greg was weary at first. He wanted to get to know Mycroft before anything happened again, _if_ anything happened again. He wanted an actual relationship and to tell the truth, he had not gotten over Mycroft properly. His head told him to do it, but since that night, Mycroft had been treating him differently.

They had a talk the next day, after Mycroft smoothed things over for John to carry a gun, for Greg to give Sherlock hints that he knew who the shooter was and to be careful next time, after he had a talk with John. This time, much to Greg's surprise, Mycroft let him lay down the rules. So they became sort of friends. Greg would talk to Mycroft about his day, his job, his colleagues, his friends, his team, Sherlock and John. He knew Mycroft could find out about these things easily, but he needed to talk to someone. Mycroft would tell him stories of his and Sherlock's childhood, his day, but most of the time he would listen to Greg, looking at him with what Greg could tell was bemusement, even wonder. He did not know what to make of that. When they did not have the time to talk, they would text. Greg realised that for the past year, he had known more about Mycroft Holmes than he had when they were ... during that Time.

When he was in captivity, he was surprised by his own trust for this man. He knew that Mycroft would find him sooner or later. Not Sherlock, not his team, Mycroft. He knew he was on surveillance, he knew the man would realise he was kidnapped, he also knew Mycroft would make sure that he was freed. Alive or dead. What he did not think was Mycroft would come personally to fetch him. He was half conscious, still bleeding on the floor from his shoulder where Moran had stabbed him. He heard scuffles, blast, then people barged into the room, taking Moran into custody. Mycroft walked in, yelling at someone to get the car. Greg was sure he was dreaming the soft voice that kept whispering to his ear, calling his name, lips brushing his forehead. When he woke up, he was in St Bart's private room, Sherlock and John at his bedside. He heard the report from Donovan. When he asked about Moriarty, John sighed and told him not to worry about it. They would not be bothered by him again. He had a suspicion on what had happened to the man, but he'd rather not voice it.

Now, here he was, in his living room, face to face with the man who years ago had caused his sorrow, who for the past year had shown him in many ways how repentant he was, who had just used his power to bring down the one person that had caused a lot of death to a lot of people with his dangerous game. Greg was conflicted.

Mycroft, on the other hand, was analysing all the information that he had from his observation. Greg and John had become friends in the past year, bonding from the need to deal with Sherlock on regular basis. This time though, for the two of them, he knew that their concern was genuine. Unlike Sherlock's previous _friends_. John was also the only person Greg could share his irritation with and, although agreeing, they did not really hate him for it. Also, John and Sherlock were in a relationship now. Mycroft had no reason to be jealous, absolutely none. John's concern for Greg was clearly platonic. He needed to up John's surveillance, for both Greg's and Sherlock's sake. The doctor had become very valuable to them. When Mycroft saw Greg that day, he thought his heart would stop. Greg was losing too much blood and he was in pain. The drive to the hospital was a haze to him, he only remembered holding Greg, making sure he was still alive. He did not notice, he did not even think of, the blood on his suit until his assistant pointed it out to him. He gave orders to deliver the captured men to the Yard, but to leave Moriarty for him to deal with.

He had the man shot in front of him. Then he had Moriarty's head delivered to Sherlock to ... add to his collection. Maybe next time he would see Moriarty's skull on Sherlock's mantelpiece.

"How are you?"

Greg smiled. "I am fine. I've got two more weeks off. You probably already know that, but thank you for asking."

Silence.

"Why were you there, Mycroft? You could have asked your team to rescue me without being there yourself. It's dangerous."

Mycroft looked at him incredulously. "Because you were there." He said as if it explained everything. To Greg, it might have.

He got up from his seat. He noticed Mycroft moved to help him but decided against it as Greg waved it off. He sat down beside Mycroft, closer than he had been. Hesitantly, he took Mycroft's hand, placing his head on Mycroft's shoulder. Softly he whispered, "Thank you."

Mycroft raised Greg's hand to his lips. "You know now that I am willing to do anything for you, don't you?"

Greg nodded. He kissed Mycroft's cheek, feeling the man relaxed against him and a hand snaked around his shoulder.

Mycroft kissed Greg's temple. _Finally_.

THE END


End file.
